


To Enter in These Bonds is to be Free

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Hetalia Kink Meme, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England always found poetry to be soothing, so when America is nervous about their first time together he decides to recite to her what he otherwise is incapable of expressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Enter in These Bonds is to be Free

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ July 1, 2011. 
> 
> OP asked for England reciting John Donne's Elegy XX, aka the "Shy mistress going to bed" poem. Most people take the poem to be the speaker coaxing the mistress to be naked while he himself is stripping down. I didn't quite go that route, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. I've already written a fic of these two with this poem (non-genderbent and non-sexy, though). Apparently I really like Donne...

  
The light shines down low from the sinking sun outside the window. England draws the curtains.   
  
America stands behind him, and even though he cannot see her, he knows that she is fidgeting—just a little. If he were to ask if she is nervous, she would just laugh at him and throw in some kind of jab about him being the one who’s nervous. So he knows better. (It’s not as if his hands are shaking, just a little.)  
  
He turns to her, and she’s there to meet him, smiling widely around the slight wave of her bobbed hair. His hands fall to her hips, draw her closer, and he kisses her. She clenches his shoulders tight—very tight, he thinks, and just manages to suppress the cringe from her strength. He kisses her long and slow, opening his mouth to her and letting her set the pace. She is practiced in these things—still a little sloppy, still a little too enthusiastic—but it’s alright. She kisses him fiercely, protectively, perhaps a little possessively. And it’s she that pushes him down onto the bed, with a dominance and confidence that doesn’t quite reflect in her eyes when she pulls away and flicks her hair over her ear as it falls into her eyes. She grins, and it curls her mouth upwards, but her eyes are frightened. He slides his hand over her hip, strokes his thumb along the line of her body.  
  
“It’s alright, my dear,” he says, trying to soothe.   
  
“Pfft,” she says with a snort. “Course it is! I’m not nervous!”  
  
She’s speaking loudly and he says, calmly, “I never said you were.”  
  
She realizes her mistake too late and looks away briefly, her cheeks pink, before she looks back at him with a small smile. “You implied it, old man.”   
  
England sighs out, but keeps stroking his thumbs along her sides in comfort. She sighs out, her defensive expression softening just a little as she settles herself comfortably into his lap. She pushes the hair from his face so she can kiss his forehead.   
  
“I know it’s alright,” she says, voice soft and unexpectedly vulnerable. “Someone’s been playing the perfect gentleman tonight, after all.”  
  
It’s England’s turn to blush, and America laughs—her laughter is soft, not the loud, obnoxious one she’s wont to do. It’s gentler, with that touch of nervousness she’d rather pretend isn’t there. He strokes his fingers through her hair, marveling silently at her beauty. He used to tell her about it all the time, but she always made fun of him for it (England suspected she likes it, though). Now it’s mostly a silent admiration. He knows that sometimes she catches it in his eyes. Unobservant as she is, there are things that even she cannot miss.   
  
He wishes to comfort her, to reassure her. He knows it is not her first time, just the first time with him. In any case, it’s been a while for her. He can see the way she fiddles with her hands, or smoothes out her dress, as if afraid that, once he peels it away from her, he will not like what he sees. As if he could ever not think she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever known and will ever know.   
  
He dips his head, kissing at her neck.   
  
“Okay,” she says, and underneath his lips, he can feel her throat constrict as she swallows thickly.   
  
She pulls away from him, standing up. He blinks after her. “America?”  
  
“Okay,” she says again, and he can see her hands lift to start undoing the buttons of her dress. “You aren’t allowed to laugh or anything, okay? Because I _will_ kill you if you do.”  
  
He would roll his eyes, but he can see the way she’s staring at him. That earnestness about her, that vulnerability.   
  
So he just shakes his head. “My dear girl,” he says, and his voice is thick, “I would not laugh at you.”  
  
Her shoulders slump a little in relief, and when she smiles this time, it’s genuine and wide enough to make sure his stomach twists into a series of knots he can never hope to untie. He swallows around the thick lump in his throat and watches her unbutton her dress, until the slope of her cleavage draws his attention.  
  
He takes his eyes up and onto her face. He holds out his hand. “Come here, America.”   
  
She pauses, obviously torn between obeying and rebelling against such a command (as is her nature to defy orders, especially from him). In the end, she smoothes her way over to him, her hand dropping from her buttons to place itself in his hand. He curls their fingers together and raises her hand, kissing the knuckles.   
  
“Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,” he says, recites, because if there’s anything England couldn’t be called, it was unromantic. And he will set her mind at ease.   
  
She looks surprised by the sudden words, unsure how to take it, exactly. But this suits him just fine. He pulls her to him, standing between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bed, and looks up at her. He reaches his hands up and works at the last of the buttons, working down her naval.   
  
“Until I labour, I in labour lie,” he recites. “The foe oftimes, having the foe in sight, is tired with standing, though he never fight.”   
  
“England, what are—”  
  
She cuts herself off when he slips her dress off her shoulders. It falls down the curvature of her arms and pools at her elbows. He smiles up at her and stands so that they are eye to eye. He leans in, kissing the corner of her mouth before sinking his lips down to line up against her jaw.   
  
“Off with the girdle, like heaven’s zone glittering,” he whispers against her ear.   
  
He hears her giggle, but refuses to stop, though his cheeks do burn red. His hands slip along her waist, open to him now that her dress is splayed open. Her skin is smooth, curved, and warm underneath his touch. Her body quivers. He smiles against her skin.   
  
“But a far fairer world encompassing.”  
  
For once, she’s polite enough not to interrupt him and he pulls her dress down to her hips. She shifts, shimmies her way out of it and lets it fall to her feet. He runs a hand over her hip, cupping it, pressing his thumb against the sharp jut of the bone. The other hand lifts her chin up so he can kiss her on the mouth. He stays close, and he can hear her breath shudder as he kisses softly at her mouth and whispers against it:  
  
“Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,” he whispers and slid his hand up to ghost over the curve of a breast. Sometimes it paid to be a well-educated pervert, he thinks with some amusement, thrilling in her quiet gasp. He pulls away from her mouth, and watches her eyes flutter open to stare at him. He smiles. “That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there.”  
  
“What, like you?” she asks, amused. But confused, too. “What are you doing, England?”  
  
“Don’t interrupt, darling,” he scolds, and she rolls her eyes. She slides up closer to him, hitching her leg up to press against his hip before curling around his backside and drawing him to her. Her hands are shaking, just a little, still nervous, and starts pulling at the buttons of his own shirt.   
  
He lets her, watching her. He waits until she lifts her eyes to look at him before continuing.   
  
“Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime tells me from you that now it is bed-time.”   
  
She raises one eyebrow, but she seems amused more than confused now. She does not know the poem he is reciting, but this suits him fine—he hadn’t expected her to know, anyway. She’s always too busy with her own things to think to stop and read poetry. Too busy with rodeos and car repair and Superbowls and shopping and whatever else it is she does in her spare time. She can’t be like England, who likes to spend his leisurely time with his needlework and library (the former of which she will never cease to tease him over).   
  
“Off with that happy busk, which I envy, that still can be, and still can stand so nigh.”   
  
His fingers hook around the fabric of her underwear. The laughter in her eyes is only momentarily dimmed by a moment of uncertainty, but it disappears as she pulls the shirt off of him.   
  
“Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals, as when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.”   
  
He runs over her body with his hands. Her eyelids lower and she closes her eyes for a moment, mouth parted. He breaks apart his recitation for a moment to lean in close, and kiss at her forehead.   
  
“You’re beautiful,” he says, “in case you can’t tell what I’m saying.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re doing,” she says with a small laugh that isn’t malicious more than it is wondering. She blinks her eyes open and lifts a hand to cup his cheek. Her hand is smooth, gentle, and yet the fingertips are callused by years of hard work. He cups his hand over hers, holding it to his cheek.   
  
“If you were more cultured, you would appreciate my sophistication. Not shut your mouth and listen, you foolish girl.”   
  
She rolls her eyes.   
  
He ignores her. She hasn’t told him to stop, and she hasn’t laughed herself silly. England takes this as encouragement.   
  
He picks his recitation back up again: “Off with your wiry coronet, and show the hairy diadems which on you do grow. Off with your hose and shoes; then softly tread in this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.”   
  
He steps back, falls back onto the mattress, and pulls her down with him. She isn’t looking at him now. Her face is bright red and she’s focused on his belt. She tugs it off and lets it fall to the ground. He smiles at her in encouragement, running his hands up her thighs slowly, following the curves.   
  
She swallows thickly, her hair falling over her face, as she runs a hand up his chest, smoothing over his skin, before resting against his shoulder. She’s straddling him, leaning over him, and she bites her lip a little. The nervousness is still there, but dimming more and more by the moment as her desire overcomes any other feeling, as her urge to just be with him grows.   
  
“England,” she says, quietly.   
  
He smiles at her, lifting a hand to push the hair from her face. She looks down at him, bites at her lip.   
  
“In such white robes heaven’s angels used to be revealed to men,” he whispers, “thou, angel, bring’st with thee a heaven-like Mahomet’s paradise.”   
  
Her expression softens, and he wonders if she can understand what he’s saying, anyway. Poetry is hard enough for her on its own, but hearing it recited when her mind must be elsewhere probably means that most of the word’s meanings are escaping her. Her look changes momentarily, though, as it breaks into a wide grin—one that touches her eyes now.   
  
He smiles back and leans up, kissing down her neck. She tilts her head back, letting out a small sigh, her hands holding tight to him. He kisses along the slope of her shoulder and over her collarbone. He shifts, downward, kissing at the slopes of her breasts. She breathes out, and shifts, lifting her hands away from him and behind her, unhooking her bra and letting it fall away.   
  
He moves his hands to cup her breasts, and she bites her lip. She slides, just slightly, and scoots off him, lying back on her own back and pulling him over her instead. His hands trace the curves of her flesh, circle around the nipples. He kisses at the soft flesh, looking up at her occasionally to make sure she is comfortable.   
  
Her eyes are closed, and her mouth is parted slightly as she breathes out a little heavier than before. He kisses at her breasts, leaves slow, open-mouthed kisses and slinks away, kissing down her navel before returning again to the slope of her breasts, the peak of her nipples.   
  
“And though ill spirits walk in white,” he continues, “we easily know by this these angels from an evil sprite; those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.”  
  
He pauses, looking up at her.   
  
She stares back.  
  
And then she starts laughing, hard, her chest heaving. “ _England_!”   
  
He smiles back, despite himself. “Licence my roving hands, and let them go before, behind, between, above, below.”   
  
“Pervert,” she says, affectionately, and even hits him in the back of the head—lighter this time, remembering her strength. He presses his lips over one breast, still smiling even as she laughs. “I can’t believe you’re doing this—you are so—”  
  
Whatever it is she thinks he is, she never says because he’s moved his mouth to the other breast and is slipping a hand underneath her underwear—and all her words are cut off with a quiet gasp as his fingers search out what he’s seeking, and finds it. He slides his hands over the wet flesh he finds there, searching out for her clit and pressing softly with one finger.   
  
“Mm,” she gasps, almost a whimper, and her hips roll slightly against his hand. “England…”   
  
“I know, my lovely,” he replies, lifting his head to kiss the corner of her mouth again. He peppers his lips along her jaw, her neck, returning to her lips—and she responds enthusiastically. His nose presses up against her cheek, and she laughs, breathless, jerking her hips down against his hand.   
  
“You’re teasing me,” she says, almost as a whine.   
  
“Not at all,” he defends, innocently. “I’m appreciating how beautiful you are.”   
  
“Do it faster,” she demands.   
  
“You’re too impatient,” he whispers to her ear. She shivers and shakes her head.   
  
“Anyone would be if all they had to show for their night together was slow touching and _recitations._ ”   
  
He kisses at her ear. “Hush.”  
  
“Make me.”   
  
He takes that challenge, sliding his hand down against her slick folds and slipping one finger into her. She tenses up in surprise and bites her lip. She spread her legs and leans in against him. It’s her turn to start kissing him, and he does not mind this. He focuses on pushing his finger deeper into her, his thumb stroking circular movements over her clit as she kisses at his neck.   
  
“England,” she whispers.   
  
He tilts his head back for a moment, and slides his other hand up her back, tracing the contours of her body, following the bumps of her spine up and down and back up again. At her neck, he curls his fingers around the strands of wavy hair and holds her close.   
  
“O, my America, my Newfoundland,” he whispers, quietly, into her ear.   
  
She freezes up, and pulls away, looking up at him.  
  
He smiles at her, expression soft, and continues, “My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d, my mine of precious stones, my empery.”   
  
She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then falls silent again—momentarily speechless. This, England knows, is the sure sign of surprise, when it comes to America—a miracle, even.   
  
“How am I blest in thus discovering thee!” he says, with the proper weight of the words, emphasizing, and lingering on that line.   
  
She stares at him.   
  
He leans in and kisses her nose. She blinks a few times, and then her face bursts into a soft, open expression—shocking in its sincerity and England understands, not for the first time, that when it comes to her, he is completely and utterly doomed. When it comes to her, he is absolutely and completely in love and devoted to her and no matter how foolish or stupid or selfish she could be, he would never stop. The feelings would never stop.  
  
Before she can speak again, he continues, “To enter in these bonds, is to be free; then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.”   
  
He splays one hand along her belly and looks at her. She looks back, expression soft. She lifts one hand, touches his cheek, then folds itself into his hair, entwining her fingers with his hair. She pulls him close, kisses him fiercely, protectively, as if afraid to ever let go. He kisses her back just as enthusiastically, the hand on her stomach lifting to take her free hand, hold it tight, and lean over her. They kiss for a long moment.   
  
When she pulls away, she laughs, quietly, and takes back her hands so she can pull off the rest of his clothing.   
  
He smiles a little, expecting the next line will have and recites: “Full nakedness!” He continues despite the fact that the two lines successfully cause her to burst into fits of laughter—“All joys are due to thee; as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be to taste whole joys.”   
  
He interrupts her laughter with another kiss, and the giggle he catches in her throat quickly dissolves into a quiet gasp as his fingers continue their work, hooking up and pressing against her. She curls her arms around the back of his neck, pulling him closer as she rolls her hips up against his hand.   
  
“England,” she moans out when he pulls away. Her eyes are half-lidded and her face is flushed with pleasure, desire.   
  
“Gems which you women use are like Atlanta’s ball cast in men’s views,” he recites as his reply. She grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling in her amusement, “That, when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem, his earthly soul might court that, not them.”   
  
“I don’t even know what you’re saying now,” she says, voice hushed as she breathes out, harder than before, her body swelling beneath his lingering touches. He adds in another finger, hooks them against her as his thumb presses against her clit. She writhes, and just manages to bite back a surprised whimper.   
  
He focuses on the movement of his hand. His fingers scissor inside her, spreading her, stroking her. His thumb continues its circular motion, pressing harder and lighter alternatively as he moves. He strokes his thumb along the exposed flesh, delights in the way it makes her shudder, writhe, cry out for him and only him.   
  
“Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made for laymen, are all women thus array’d,” he recites, marveling her beauty. He dips his head, kisses at her breasts and down her belly. Her hands fall into his hair, guiding his head. He whispers against her flesh, “Themselves are only mystic books, which we—whom their imputed grace will dignify—must see reveal’d.”   
  
“A book, England. Really?” she says, laughing. “No wonder you like this poem.”  
  
“Hush,” he chides, and she giggles but does fall quiet. “Then, since that I may know, as liberally as to thy midwife show thyself—”  
  
Apparently that was too much for America, because she started laughing again, “Jesus!”   
  
“—Cast all, yea, this white linen hence; there is no penance due to innocence: to teach thee, I am naked first—”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” she interrupts, thinking herself clever.  
  
He ignores her and finishes, “Why then, what needst thou have more covering than a man?”  
  
“You tell me,” she jokes in return, and the nervousness seems to have melted away from her eyes now. Instead, she’s just smiling, laughter in her eyes. It’s a reassuring look.   
  
He smiles at her, hooks his hand along the band of her underwear, and pulls away the last of the clothing, tosses it aside. He lets his eyes trace her body, naked before him. The scrutiny causes her pause, her expression flickering, as if prepared to shout at him or make some kind of dismissive comment, should he injure her pride.   
  
Expression soft, his eyes return to hers and he says, quietly, “My dear.”  
  
“Mm,” she says, as if in response, and arches up, pulling him back down to press his naked body up against hers. “Come on, England.”   
  
He goes to her, does as she instructs with the silent pull of her hands, the swish of her body as she presses her leg up, curls it around him and draws him close. He rolls his hips and she bites her lip just in time for him to catch her mouth and keep kissing.   
  
She pulls away with a quiet gasp as he slowly removes his fingers. He pushes the fingers into his mouth, tastes her, and she’s laughing quietly, her body spread out beneath him. Beautiful. He could look at her forever. The slight curve of her jaw, the part of her kiss-swollen lips. The way her hair, disarrayed, frames her face and slides over the pillow in waves. Her body is curved, soft beneath his touch. Her breasts heave slightly with her breath and her belly is flat as he runs appreciative fingers over her skin. She is warm and open to him.   
  
“Lovely,” he murmurs. Her face flushes just slightly, but she seems pleased by the compliment.   
  
“England, you are _so_ weird. What was that all about, anyway?” she says, somehow managing to sound amused and skeptical while still remaining completely breathless.   
  
“I thought that you’d just laugh in my face and it’d put your mind at ease, make you less tense.” He smiles, hooking his hand under one knee and hoisting her leg up as he slides his body up against her, searches for the angle that’ll make her moan.   
  
“Or effectively kill the mood,” she says, still laughing. She bites back a quiet moan as his hand runs down her side and dips dangerously close to the apex of her legs. “Luckily for you, I _do_ appreciate your cultured ways.”   
  
“I do what I can, it’s true,” he says and is about to say something more when he finds a hand wrapping around his cock and squeezing, a very convincing argument on its own. He bites back a moan and she smiles.   
  
“I know you do.” She leans up to kiss him, and pulls away, her smile wide but soft. “Thanks.”   
  
She squeezes his cock again, slides her fingers from root to tip, beckons him closer.   
  
“England,” she whispers, eyes soft.   
  
“Hmm,” he moans, kissing at her forehead.   
  
“Come on,” she says again, more demanding this time.   
  
“Yes, yes, darling,” he says with a sigh and momentarily forgets what he’s doing when her hand does that thing she does so well, that dragging, aching touch of her fingertips. And blissfully—cruelly—she pulls her hand away, lets her hands fall down on the pillow near her head. She arches her back, her eyes falling to half-mast as she watches him.   
  
“Do you need a map?” she jokes, smiling a slightly crooked smile that makes one cheek dimple up.   
  
“Shut your mouth,” he says, but he’s smiling too, despite himself. He lowers his eyes, traces them over her body.  
  
One hand curls around her hip, feels the delightful jut of the bone, the quiver of muscles, beneath his touch. The other hand guides itself down between her legs, brushes his fingertips against the sensitive skin and delights in the hitch of her breath as he presses the head of his cock up against her, pushes past the slight moment of resistance, and then slides in.  
  
She bites her lip, arches again, tenses up just slightly.   
  
“It’s alright,” he breathes as she moans out something that sounds like his name. He ducks his head, kisses at her collarbone, soft-open mouthed kisses that he peppers against her skin.   
  
She stays still for a moment, and it’s agony for him to do the same. But he does so, he waits. He waits for her sign, waits for her to relax, waits for her to enjoy the feel. She is warm and tight and _there_ just beneath him and it’s so strange to see her this way—her face twisted up, just slightly, sweat clinging her hair to her forehead. Her chest rises and fall with her ragged breath, her fingers curl.   
  
He lifts his hand from her hip, curls his fingers with hers, presses them down against the mattress. He kisses her collarbone, dips down to the valley of her breasts, to each nipple, back up again to the hollow of her throat.   
  
He kisses her, feels her slowly uncoil beneath him, feels her relax.   
  
“Okay,” she breathes into his hair, and then kisses his temple. “Go, go, already. Come on.”  
  
She jerks her hips once and that’s enough for him. He responds, rolls his hips up and into her. She gasps out, spreads her legs a little only to curl them around his hips and keep him tethered to her.   
  
“Again,” she pleads and he responds.   
  
She shifts her weight against him, rising to meet him. He follows her pace, watches the way she responds to him, not bothering to bite back her moans anymore. She whispers his name, clings to his back. He kisses her and she responds, kissing back sloppily, moaning against his mouth as he sweeps his tongue into hers, traces the contours of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth.   
  
“Maybe—I should,” she gasps out against him, words breathless, “recite a poem for you—for you, too!”   
  
Her words are cut off a few times by moans and then a defiant jerk of her body back against him, trying to return the favor, trying to maintain some semblance of control, disallowing him complete domination—and that’s how he likes it, likes seeing the fire burning in her wide blue eyes and knowing that she’s looking at only him.  
  
“What poem, pray tell?”  
  
“There once was a girl from Nantucket—” she begins.  
  
He presses a thumb against her clit again and she cuts off with a gasp and a quiet laugh.   
  
“That’ll do, darling,” he drawls out as her body squeezes up against him.   
  
Her eyes are sparkling when she shifts, pushes against him, rolls them so she’s on top of him, riding him, her breasts bouncing from the movement, hair falling into her eyes. She smirks down at him, hair in her face, and he forgets to move, forgets to breathe.  
  
“Christ—”  
  
“Keep doing that thing with your hand,” she demands and he obeys, his hand falling between them as she shifts her hips up and down over his cock, riding him.   
  
Her movements are fluid, the corded muscles of her thighs rising and falling as she moves, bucks her body up against his cock. She bites her lips, throws her head to the side so her short hair falls to one side momentarily. She smiles, blue eyes alight with laughter and desire, and she’s looking down at only him, one hand planted on his chest.   
  
“You’re not bad on the eyes either, you know,” she says, as if she can read his thoughts, as if she knows that he’s completely captivated by her, always has been and always will be.   
  
“I’m vastly reassured,” he says, means to sound sardonic but only sounds breathless and wondering instead.   
  
She rides him until her body tenses up, with one final jerk of her hips down against his cock and against his hand. She writhes, and he feels her body tense up and spasm. She tips her head back, just slightly, before falling forward and cushioning her fall against him. Her breasts press up against his chest, and his expression flickers before he wraps his arms around her as she churns against him. It isn’t much longer before he’s joining her, his body spasming in turn, hips jerking up as he spills his come inside of her.   
  
She murmurs something inaudible, turns her head, and kisses his ear as she continues to shift her hips up and down, milking him dry. He runs his fingers down her spine, follows the curve of her body.   
  
He’s breathless. She’s moaning quietly in his ear, kisses it again, and pulls away with a dimpling smile.   
  
He knows, always knows, that he is completely doomed when it comes to her. He lifts a hand, cups her cheek, and just looks up at her—marvels at her, not for the first time.   
  
“Oh, my America,” he says, with just the slightest touch of a smile to his mouth as he looks up at her.   
  
Her eyes sparkle, and the dimples seem even more pronounced when she’s so happy, so happy she’s glowing.   
  
“I know,” she breathes. She kisses his cheek and pulls out of him, sinks down against him, and curls up against him, one leg hooked over his body to keep him pinned to the bed—as if he wants to leave!—and sighing, happy. “I know, babe.”   
  
“Hm,” he hums, curling his fingers into her hair. Blessed in discovering her, indeed, he thinks but does not say.   
  
She must know what he’s thinking, though, because the next kiss against his ear she gives him has a playful bite to it.   
  
He can live with this.


End file.
